


Wanderer's Melody

by isisrising (Noxtorious)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxtorious/pseuds/isisrising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock goes undercover as one of his Homeless Network, and reaches out to John in the only way he still can. But will it be enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanderer's Melody

The first time John Watson heard the music, he'd been home alone on a Saturday night. He had turned off the telly, having gotten fed up with the appalling amount of crap telly on the air. John had decided to curl up on the sofa with a book. Absently, he recalled buying  _The Hobbit_  at a book fair a couple of months ago. John strolled over to the shelf, and grabbed the book and an afghan, heading back to the couch and settling in. John eased into the sofa with the book, vividly recalling Sherlock's displeasure the first time he saw it-

John's chest tightened uncomfortably at the thought of Sherlock. He fought back tears; ever since the burial three weeks ago, his memories of Sherlock had become especially painful and especially frequent. John took a few moments to collect himself, choking out a bitter laugh once he felt stable.  _Leave it to Sherlock to be a pain in the arse, even when dead_ , he thought. Letting out a weary sigh, John bunkered down and began to read. An hour on, John was deeply immersed in the story, so much so that he didn't hear the melody outside the window at first. When he finally noticed the sounds coming from outside, he walked over to the window and opened it fully, despite the chill in the air. Looking down towards the street, John could see the source of the beautiful music: a homeless man, sitting on a crate.

The man's lanky frame was covered in filthy rags, and his skin was grimy. Long, greasy hair covered his face. Yet the tune he played was beautiful and poignant, enough so that a fair amount of people were dropping money into his case as he played. One song stopped, and the audience hardly had time to applaud before the derelict launched into another tune. John thanked his lucky stars that he was still mostly dressed, and slipped on his shoes and coat, heading outside to hear the music better.

For another half-hour, the man continued to play. When the last song ended, he stood up from the crate, and placed his violin in its case. The crowd dispersed as John walked closer to the man, a pound in hand.

"Here, mate," said John, holding out the note.

"Oi, thanks." The derelict had a rough, cockney accent. He shot out a grimy, bony arm and grabbed the bill, stuffing it into his pocket. He then turned and walked away, carrying the violin case in one hand, the crate in the other.

"Hey," John called out, "What's your name?" The man stopped under the streetlight, his face impossible to see.

"None of your concern, mate. I don't need you to be my friend." The man turned and shuffled down the street and disappeared from view. John stared for a moment, before heading back inside. In the lobby, Mrs. Hudson stopped him.

"Did you hear that man playing the violin?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson, it was lovely."

"I hope he comes back around sometime," Mrs Hudson said after a short pause. Neither one of them mentioned Sherlock.

"I do too. Good night, Mrs. Hudson." John turned and went back up the stairs. That night, he slept peacefully for the first time in weeks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this first chapter is so short; following chapters will be longer.


End file.
